


Waking (breaking)

by Thei



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Electrocution, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt No Comfort, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thei/pseuds/Thei
Summary: They tell him that he islucky to be alive– that they saved him, ripped him out of the jaws of death and brought him back. They tell him, when he won’t eat and refuses to answer their questions, that he should begrateful.They tell him he isspecial.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Waking (breaking)

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, as per usual.

He wakes up in pain.

He wakes up, again and again, and _every time_ he’s in pain. He is vaguely aware of people around him, of voices, of beeping machines and a feeling that he _can’t breathe –_ but he never voices it. He can’t. Something is covering his mouth, and besides, he barely has enough air as it is.

He goes under.

He wakes up again, and he’s still in pain, but he recognizes that it’s not as bad this time around. He doesn’t exactly _remember_ the agony he’s been in – his brain shuts down when he tries – but he _knows_ it’s been worse than this. Knows it’s been real bad.

He stays awake, this time.

They tell him that he is _lucky to be alive_ – that they saved him, ripped him out of the jaws of death and brought him back. They tell him, when he won’t eat and refuses to answer their questions, that he should be _grateful_.

They tell him he is _special_.

He remembers the shadow, invading his body and soul, and he doesn’t feel very lucky. He remembers trying to fight back, and _failing failing failing_ while having to watch his hands to horrible things, and he doesn’t feel very grateful.

But one time, he wakes up from a nightmare and throws one of the white-clad men against a wall with his _mind_ – and he feels special, alright.

_Freak_.

It excites them, and they want him to do it again. He refuses. He doesn’t know these people, he doesn’t know this place, he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to _be_.

So he doesn’t eat. He doesn’t answer when they talk to him. He turns his back and sleeps, or pretends to sleep, and pretends that the aches and pains of his broken body is penance enough for still breathing.

He wakes up from nightmares, screaming, but no matter how many times they ask him about it, he doesn’t tell him. He can’t. Instead, he thinks of a red-headed girl, skating down the sidewalk and laughing while she gives him the finger. He thinks of a brown-haired boy, smiling (at others – never at him – but nonetheless _smiling_ ). He thinks of a blonde woman on a beach, her dress flowing in the wind. He remembers the feeling of being behind the wheel of a car that feels like home; wind in his hair, empty roads ahead of him, and the roar of an engine almost loud enough to drown out the music.

These are the things that put him back together every time he shatters; these are the things that keep him sane. He clings to these memories with a desperation he can't explain, and most of the time he manages to stop himself before they turn sour. Before the red-headed girl’s face turns afraid and pleading, before the brown-haired boy turns angry, before the blonde woman turns to dust in the gentle breeze. Before the memory of a crash can taint the feeling of freedom on the roads.

Most of the time, he manages to stop himself before the tears fall.

They get tired of his attitude, eventually. They tell him that he’s too important to waste away, that they didn’t save him just so he could die again. They say that they have invested too much in him to let him –

They don’t finish the sentence. Instead, they bring him into another room, put him in a chair by a table, and tell him to _show them what he can do_.

He refuses.

They shock him. It hurts; his whole barely-healed body seizes up and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t _think_ because it hurts so bad _it hurts so bad_ –

– but then it’s over. He’s gasping, bent over the table, tears in his eyes because it hurts but also because he deserves this, doesn't he? He's done horrible things. He deserves having horrible things done to him.

They tell him again, to show them what he can do.

He shakes his head. Speaks, for the first time in days, maybe weeks. Says “No”, with a voice that he can barely recognize.

So they shock him again, longer this time. He cries, he sobs, but he still refuses because he deserves this, they never should have saved him, they should have let him die, they –

But they don’t stop. They don’t stop, it just keeps going and going and all of him is just pain upon more pain and there is no relief, there is no end to it. He can’t draw breath enough to speak, he can’t open his eyes to plead with them, he can’t move even to get on his knees and beg for it to end.

They don’t _stop_.

He deserves this, he tries to think, but he can’t handle this anymore, he _can’t_. He deserved to die for what he did, but this isn't dying. They won’t _let him_ die, even when he would give anything for the sweet relief of death right now. He’d do what they want, he’d do anything they tell him to do if they only let him breathe, if they only _stop_ –

But they don’t. It goes on forever, and he may deserve death but he’s just a kid and he doesn’t deserve _this_.

They break him, completely.

He’s back where he started, in the room where he woke up, but he doesn’t remember how he ended up here. He doesn’t remember them stopping – perhaps it’s still going on. He’s in the corner of the room, still shaking, still seizing up, still in pain. Tears are running down his face, no memories can put him back together this time.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. He flinches at every sound, real and imaginary. They bring him food, and he eats it because they tell him to eat. He throws it up when they’re gone. He’s still shaking, and hurting from the tips of his fingers to the back of his head to the center of his chest to his ice-cold toes on the concrete floor.

He’s in the corner of the room, still with tears on his face, when they come for him again. They bring him into the other room, put him in a chair by a table, and tell him again to _show them what he can do_.

And they _broke_ him. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t deserve this.

So he shows them.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a year.  
> This was a way to handle it, I suppose.
> 
> Free interpretation of the ending, there.


End file.
